CHAPTER NINETEEN #17
Zach leans closer, close enough that the air between us feels thick and heavy. "So you're telling me," he murmurs, "that you've been wearing this every day for three years just because it's... cute?"
"It goes with everything," I say quickly, a little too quickly.
He hums, like he doesn't believe me for a second. "Right. So, it has nothing to do with the fact that I gave it to you."
My breath hitches, and I force my chin up, trying to look unaffected even as my eyes betray me, flicking down to his mouth.
"It doesn't," I whisper.
Zach's grin turns slow, wicked. "Liar."
The word slides over my skin like a caress, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
And then Zach's grip on the door eases just enough that I feel the weight of his body shift back.
I seize the moment and whirl toward the door, fumbling for the knob—only to freeze when his palm slams against the wood beside my head with a soft, heavy thud.
The sound vibrates straight through me.
"Can you—" my voice cracks, and I clear my throat, forcing steel into it. "Can you stop blocking the door and just let me leave?"
"And can you stop running away?"
The warmth of his breath skims my skin, and I swear every hair on my body stands on end. My spine goes rigid, a shiver rolling all the way down to my toes.
For a beat, neither of us moves. Then Zach sighs—long and weary.
"I've waited so damn long for this day," he says, his voice ragged, his palm still pressed firm against the door. "For three years. Just to see you. To talk to you. Like we used to."
His forehead comes to rest against my shoulder, his breath warm and shaky as it spills out against my skin.
"So please... baby," his voice cracks on the word, soft and wrecked, "stop running from me. You're breaking my heart."
"Zach..." The name falls from my lips, shaky, my fingers still locked around the doorknob like it's the only thing keeping me standing. "I can't—"
"Just a few minutes," he cuts in, his tone breaking softer, almost begging. "That's all I'm asking. I know you don't want to talk to me right now—maybe not ever. And you have every reason not to."
His hand slides down, fingers brushing my wrist before settling warm against my elbow, guiding me gently until I let go of the doorknob.
My body turns under his touch, slow and reluctant, until we're face-to-face again.
His jaw tightens, his throat working like the words cost him. "But I can't just stand here and watch you walk away again. I'm not built to stay away from you, Caroline." His eyes search mine, raw and unguarded. "I never was."
He exhales, the sound low and rough, like it's being dragged out of him. "You don't even have to say anything. Just... stay. Hear me out. Let me tell you what really happened—why I said what I said."
His hand loosens on my arm but doesn't fall away, his thumb brushing once against my sleeve, like he's afraid I'll bolt if he lets go completely.
"If, after that, you still want nothing to do with me—if you still think we're better off as strangers—" He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Then I'll respect it. I'll let you go. I'll stay out of your life for good, even if that's the very last thing I wanna do."
His voice dips, almost breaking. "But give me this, Caroline. Please. Just this one chance to make it right."
I look up at him, really look, and my chest aches at what I find there. His eyes are wide open, pleading, almost raw enough to hurt.
My heart twists, traitorous, wanting to stay—even though every part of my brain is screaming that I shouldn't.
I want to say no. I should say no. Turn around, walk out, save myself the heartbreak.
But that isn't the word that comes out.
"Okay," I whisper, my throat tight as the word scrapes free.
For a moment, he just stands there, like he isn't sure he heard me right. Then his mouth curves—barely, the tiniest twitch at the corner, but it's there. His shoulders drop, tension bleeding out of them as he exhales slow.
He takes a single step back, finally giving me enough space to breathe.
Without another word, he crosses the room and sinks down onto the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees. His gaze never leaves me.
I'm still standing by the door like an idiot, my back pressed to it like I need the wood to hold me up.
"You can sit," he says, nodding toward the sofa against the far wall.
I move, careful and stiff, perching on the edge like I might spring back up any second.
"Thanks," I mutter, and it sounds way too formal.
Silence falls over the room. Thick. Stifling.
My eyes dart everywhere but at him. The room is big—way bigger than I expected. It feels less like a dorm and more like a hotel suite. There's even a balcony tucked behind sliding glass doors, curtains pulled half-open to the night.
The space is undeniably his—neat and perfectly put together. Of course it is. Zach's always been a clean freak.
A massive Ridgewater Warriors banner takes up one wall, and there are a few framed posters of hockey legends—Wayne Gretzky in his prime, Alex Ovechkin mid-slapshot. A couple of game pucks sit lined up like trophies on a shelf, perfectly spaced.
When I run out of things to look at, my gaze betrays me and flicks back toward him.
He's still watching me.
My stomach flips, and I look away fast, shifting on the sofa like the cushion's too hot. "You have a big room," I say, my voice a little too bright, a little too casual. "Are all the rooms here this big?"
He shakes his head, leaning back slightly. "Just mine and Elijah's. Team captain and co-captain get the private suites."
I nod, biting back a small laugh. "Must be nice. Bet the rest of the guys are thrilled about that."
"Yeah. They probably aren't thrilled about it, but that's how it's always been." Zach's mouth curves, a quick flash of teeth.
A reluctant laugh slips out of me, quick and quiet, before the silence returns.
The room goes still again. Too still. It feels like we've been sitting here forever, waiting for someone to say something that matters.
My gaze wanders, desperate for somewhere else to land, until it catches on the bed.
Bad idea.
My brain, being its usual traitorous self, decides now is the perfect time to replay the image of Taylor standing there earlier—beside his bed, all polished perfection—and before I can stop myself, my mouth is opening.
"Are you sure this is... okay?"
Zach's brows knit. "What?"
"Me being here." My fingers twist the edge of my shirt.
His expression softens. "Of course it's okay. Why wouldn't it be?"
I swallow, glancing at the bed again before blurting, "Well, you know... we're alone in here. Your girlfriend might get the wrong idea."
His brows shoot up, genuine surprise flashing across his face. "Girlfriend?"
Why does he sound so confused?
Is he seriously pretending not to know who I mean?
"Uh, yeah? Taylor—who was literally standing in here two minutes ago."
He stares for a beat, then the corner of his mouth lifts and a chuckle escapes him, "Taylor?" Another quiet laugh. "You mean Taylor Lewis?"
I resist the urge to roll my eyes so hard they get stuck. Who else, genius?
"She's not my girlfriend. God, no." His chuckle lingers, like the idea is too ridiculous to take seriously. "You know I don't do relationships."
A sharp little laugh bubbles out of me—one that sounds nothing like amusement. "Right. Of course you don't."
My lips flatten, my tone going flat to match. "You only do hookups." The words slip out quieter, muttered, but the bite is there.
And of course, that's all it takes for my brain to go full drama channel.
Great. Now I'm picturing it — Zach and Taylor, in this room. On that bed. Naked. Sweaty naked.
Fantastic. Really needed that mental image tonight.
My stomach twists like I just swallowed a shot of tequila too fast. And because my imagination is apparently a sadist, it keeps going.
She's not his girlfriend, my brain supplies helpfully. She's his hookup. His late-night booty call. His sneaky link. His situationship. His no-strings-attached whatever.
God, there are so many names for this now. Casual entanglement? Friends with benefits? Actually, scratch the 'friends.' His fu—
Nope. Not going there.
But it's too late. I'm already wondering how many times they've done it. In this exact room. On this exact bed. God knows how many other girls have been here too.
I almost want to bleach the entire place. Or myself. Maybe both.
Ugh. Disgusting.
Zach's brows draw together, and he leans forward like he's about to say something. "That's not what I—"
"Anyway." My voice cuts through his.
I cross my legs, deliberately looking everywhere but at him—back at the banner, the posters, the damn balcony—until my voice comes out level, almost bored. "I'm ready to listen now."
For a beat, Zach just blinks at me, like that wasn't at all where he thought this was going.
"Uh... right."
His pointer finger drags slowly across his temple before falling away, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.
And for the first time tonight, he actually looks nervous.
This is Zach Westbrook we're talking about — the human embodiment of unshakable swagger and confidence.
And now he's nervous? Like he just got shoved under a spotlight with nothing prepared.
"Uh, well..." Zach shifts, his jaw working, like he's searching for the right words but keeps coming up empty.
He takes a deep breath, like he's psyching himself up, then blows it out in one long rush.
"I was in love with you in high school," he says.
It comes out fast, almost like he tripped over the words.
My mouth falls open, but nothing comes out at first. My throat catches like I swallowed wrong, even though there's nothing there.
"You—" I choke, air stuttering in my lungs. "You wha—What?"
"I said, I was in love with you in high school," he repeats. He's looking at me with that sheepish half-smile.
I have to fight the urge to let out a sharp gasp, forcing myself to breathe evenly.